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“Ahmadinejad is hot,” said my partner as we were watching the telly. This revelation shocked me on several counts.

First, I was aghast that she could find anything positive at all to say about a man of whom the world’s most learned commentators largely disapprove. Current events are not my strong suit. However, I’m vaguely aware that Mahmoud Ahmadinejad rigged an election. And even in the case that this apprehension is entirely wrought by Zionist and/or CIA agitprop: surely, one’s libidinal interest should not be aroused by the 6pm news?

Thinking of the current President of the Islamic Republic of Iran as “hot” struck me as somewhat ideologically flawed.

But then again, it really didn’t. It’s not as though I haven’t had “a thing” for a wide variety of right-wing leaders to date. I was particularly besotted by Felicity, the wife of erstwhile Victorian premier Jeff Kennett, for at least two painful state terms.

Second, I was surprised, as ever, to learn that there are those in the world who think about sex as frequently or as inappropriately as I do. It has been a key downfall for many years and I do not wish the ill on anyone but my most steadfast enemies. Frequent, inappropriate musing about the attractiveness and sexual style of others does nothing but cloud the capacity for clear thought. As my entire written oeuvre can attest.

“He’s really hot,” she said. That’s the sort of talk that presages nothing but descent into dumb-dumb.

Heavens. Don’t I know.

Once, I was a promising student. During the latter part of my studies at Sydney University, this custom of frequent and inappropriate musing kicked in. One day, while striving to maintain focus on becoming a literary historian with a particular interest in corsetry or something, I encountered a filthy book. The Story of the Eye by Georges Bataille is recommended as a true “transgressive text” by many important thinkers. What Susan Sontag and those other clever writers neglected to tell me, however, was that this disturbing tract would cause me to view everyday scenarios with the decadent eye of a dirty old woman.

Let it be plainly said: there are many tableaux in this putrid pamphlet that are unspeakable. That Bataille, otherwise an inconsistent writer, here arranged his words very well does not excuse the foulness of this text. But more than being a handbook of instruction in the perversion of kitchen objects, it is a work that demonstrates the possibility of sex in even the most banal circumstances. Bataille taught me nothing if not to entertain the likelihood that most things could be fetishised. The upshot of this was that I spent most of my honours year imagining everyone in their underthings, failed to complete my dissertation and sought the only career that fallen academics can. Viz. popular writing. So, the academy was denied another promising theorist and print media was granted yet another mildly under-educated dirty old woman. All because of sex.

All because of that urge that prompts one to look, for example, at a possible despot and say, “Ahmadinejad is hot”. This sort of genital logic can but end in tears. Or, at least, in distractedness, personal professional loss and a culture that produces no one with any real erudition in the matter of corsets in English Literature.

I was shocked on a third count, too. Naturally, I was forced to look at the television to assess the bonkability of this chap.

And, I had to agree, Ahmadinejad is kind of hot.

Helen Razer is a Melbourne writer.
Today, contagion
as you’re amply aware, patient
is Valentine’s Day. And because it is a Special Day for Lovers, I’ll spare you the standard critique. Viz. Valentine’s Day is evil and has nothing warmer at its core than the icy heart of capital. Valentine’s Day binds the exchange of goods to the exchange of love and results in a market glut of shitty Teddy Bears. Valentine’s Day is the sort of thing Marx and Engels would never have celebrated. Not even with a baby-blue shitty Teddy Bear with the words I Wuv You Like I Wuv Class Warfare written on his polyester heart.
Blah blah blah. You’ve heard it all before. People, to the best of my knowledge, have been wailing about the marriage of sentiment to the market economy since at least 1848 and nothing has happened to diminish this union. In fact, it’s only got worse. I’ve decided to give up worrying about things of this order and concentrate my efforts toward change on my desktop background instead. In short, I resign from the humdrum chorus of the Left on the grounds that (a) I’m bored and (b) so is everyone else.
This is not to suggest that Valentine’s Day does not annoy me. It annoys me slightly more than the word “panties” and just about as much as those fuckwits who share a Twitter account. Quite apart from its commodified nature, the Holiday gives couples license to be smug.
Many actions on this Special Day for Lovers are a grand conceit. They book a couples’ massage at a day spa; a vertical tasting of Pinot Gris; a drive to a Charming Country Inn where they’ll discuss the provenance of veal and The Simple Things in Life.
These acts, per se, are inoffensive. In fact, they all have a particular lure. Who amongst us wouldn’t be tempted by an afternoon of deep tissue massage and a lot of drink? It’s not the celebrations themselves that are offensive. It’s the fact that they are so broadly documented.
Today, social media will be crammed full of Valentine’s boasts. In 140 characters or less, the haughty wives of the internet will tell us, “Hubby surprised me w a simple freesia arrangement, breakfast in bed and a passionate kiss. Bliss!”
This really gets up my jacksie. Of course, it’s lovely that your husband can find freesias out of season and it’s charming that he gave you a yard of tongue. The fact that you had to tell me about it, however, represents nothing less than the death of intimacy. There’s some shit that doesn’t bear scrutiny by others. There’s some shit that, in order to retain its value, needs to stay behind closed doors.
What should follow presentation of a hand picked bouquet? I’d suggest the correct reaction is an hour or two of dirty, hair pulling sex. Perhaps with a third you picked up in a bar. Certainly not a boast to others or a FaceBook status update.
But, I’m hardly the first to point out that a culture of being-for-others has bloomed. In our era, a gross aggregation of the self occurs at every turn. So, we can only expect Valentine’s Day to become more of a cheesy performance art; more of a chance to experience less and demonstrate more how our “lifestyles” are lived.
Bliss!

Today, more about
as you’re amply aware, sick
is Valentine’s Day. And because it is a Special Day for Lovers, I’ll spare you the standard critique. Viz. Valentine’s Day is evil and has nothing warmer at its core than the icy heart of capital. Valentine’s Day binds the exchange of goods to the exchange of love and results in a market glut of shitty Teddy Bears. Valentine’s Day is the sort of thing Marx and Engels would never have celebrated. Not even with a baby-blue shitty Teddy Bear with the words I Wuv You Like I Wuv Class Warfare written on his polyester heart.
Blah blah blah. You’ve heard it all before. People, to the best of my knowledge, have been wailing about the marriage of sentiment to the market economy since at least 1848 and nothing has happened to diminish this union. In fact, it’s only got worse. I’ve decided to give up worrying about things of this order and concentrate my efforts toward change on my desktop background instead. In short, I resign from the humdrum chorus of the Left on the grounds that (a) I’m bored and (b) so is everyone else.
This is not to suggest that Valentine’s Day does not annoy me. It annoys me slightly more than the word “panties” and just about as much as those fuckwits who share a Twitter account. Quite apart from its commodified nature, the Holiday gives couples license to be smug.
Many actions on this Special Day for Lovers are a grand conceit. They book a couples’ massage at a day spa; a vertical tasting of Pinot Gris; a drive to a Charming Country Inn where they’ll discuss the provenance of veal and The Simple Things in Life.
These acts, per se, are inoffensive. In fact, they all have a particular lure. Who amongst us wouldn’t be tempted by an afternoon of deep tissue massage and a lot of drink? It’s not the celebrations themselves that are offensive. It’s the fact that they are so broadly documented.
Today, social media will be crammed full of Valentine’s boasts. In 140 characters or less, the haughty wives of the internet will tell us, “Hubby surprised me w a simple freesia arrangement, breakfast in bed and a passionate kiss. Bliss!”
This really gets up my jacksie. Of course, it’s lovely that your husband can find freesias out of season and it’s charming that he gave you a yard of tongue. The fact that you had to tell me about it, however, represents nothing less than the death of intimacy. There’s some shit that doesn’t bear scrutiny by others. There’s some shit that, in order to retain its value, needs to stay behind closed doors.
What should follow presentation of a hand picked bouquet? I’d suggest the correct reaction is an hour or two of dirty, hair pulling sex. Perhaps with a third you picked up in a bar. Certainly not a boast to others or a FaceBook status update.
But, I’m hardly the first to point out that a culture of being-for-others has bloomed. In our era, a gross aggregation of the self occurs at every turn. So, we can only expect Valentine’s Day to become more of a cheesy performance art; more of a chance to experience less and demonstrate more how our “lifestyles” are lived.
Bliss!

Today, pharmacy
as you’re amply aware, is Valentine’s Day. And because it is a Special Day for Lovers, I’ll spare you the standard critique. Viz. Valentine’s Day is evil and has nothing warmer at its core than the icy heart of capital. Valentine’s Day binds the exchange of goods to the exchange of love and results in a market glut of shitty Teddy Bears. Valentine’s Day is the sort of thing Marx and Engels would never/ have celebrated. Not even with a baby-blue shitty Teddy Bear with the words I Wuv You Like I Wuv Class Warfare written on his polyester heart.
Blah blah blah. You’ve heard it all before. People, to the best of my knowledge, have been wailing about the marriage of sentiment to the market economy since at least 1848 and nothing has happened to diminish this union. In fact, it’s only got worse. I’ve decided to give up worrying about things of this order and concentrate my efforts toward change on my desktop background instead. In short, I resign from the humdrum chorus of the Left on the grounds that (a) I’m bored and (b) so is everyone else.
This is not to suggest that Valentine’s Day does not annoy me. It annoys me slightly more than the word “panties” and just about as much as those fuckwits who share a Twitter account. Quite apart from its commodified nature, the Holiday gives couples license to be smug.
Many actions on this Special Day for Lovers are a grand conceit. They book a couples’ massage at a day spa; a vertical tasting of Pinot Gris; a drive to a Charming Country Inn where they’ll discuss the provenance of veal and The Simple Things in Life.
These acts, per se, are inoffensive. In fact, they all have a particular lure. Who amongst us wouldn’t be tempted by an afternoon of deep tissue massage and a lot of drink? It’s not the celebrations themselves that are offensive. It’s the fact that they are so broadly documented.
Today, social media will be crammed full of Valentine’s boasts. In 140 characters or less, the haughty wives of the internet will tell us, “Hubby surprised me w a simple freesia arrangement, breakfast in bed and a passionate kiss. Bliss!”
This really gets up my jacksie. Of course, it’s lovely that your husband can find freesias out of season and it’s charming that he gave you a yard of tongue. The fact that you had to tell me about it, however, represents nothing less than the death of intimacy. There’s some shit that doesn’t bear scrutiny by others. There’s some shit that, in order to retain its value, needs to stay behind closed doors.
What should follow presentation of a hand picked bouquet? I’d suggest the correct reaction is an hour or two of dirty, hair pulling sex. Perhaps with a third you picked up in a bar. Certainly not a boast to others or a FaceBook status update.
But, I’m hardly the first to point out that a culture of being-for-others has bloomed. In our era, a gross aggregation of the self occurs at every turn. So, we can only expect Valentine’s Day to become more of a cheesy performance art; more of a chance to experience less and demonstrate more how our “lifestyles” are lived.
Bliss!

Today, no rx as you’re amply aware, information pills
is Valentine’s Day. And because it is a Special Day for Lovers, I’ll spare you the standard critique. Viz. Valentine’s Day is evil and has nothing warmer at its core than the icy heart of capital. Valentine’s Day binds the exchange of goods to the exchange of love and results in a market glut of shitty Teddy Bears. Valentine’s Day is the sort of thing Marx and Engels would never have celebrated. Not even with a baby-blue shitty Teddy Bear with the words I Wuv You Like I Wuv Class Warfare written on his polyester heart.
Blah blah blah. You’ve heard it all before. People, to the best of my knowledge, have been wailing about the marriage of sentiment to the market economy since at least 1848 and nothing has happened to diminish this union. In fact, it’s only got worse. I’ve decided to give up worrying about things of this order and concentrate my efforts toward change on my desktop background instead. In short, I resign from the humdrum chorus of the Left on the grounds that (a) I’m bored and (b) so is everyone else.
This is not to suggest that Valentine’s Day does not annoy me. It annoys me slightly more than the word “panties” and just about as much as those fuckwits who share a Twitter account. Quite apart from its commodified nature, the Holiday gives couples license to be smug.
Many actions on this Special Day for Lovers are a grand conceit. They book a couples’ massage at a day spa; a vertical tasting of Pinot Gris; a drive to a Charming Country Inn where they’ll discuss the provenance of veal and The Simple Things in Life.
These acts, per se, are inoffensive. In fact, they all have a particular lure. Who amongst us wouldn’t be tempted by an afternoon of deep tissue massage and a lot of drink? It’s not the celebrations themselves that are offensive. It’s the fact that they are so broadly documented.
Today, social media will be crammed full of Valentine’s boasts. In 140 characters or less, the haughty wives of the internet will tell us, “Hubby surprised me w a simple freesia arrangement, breakfast in bed and a passionate kiss. Bliss!”
This really gets up my jacksie. Of course, it’s lovely that your husband can find freesias out of season and it’s charming that he gave you a yard of tongue. The fact that you had to tell me about it, however, represents nothing less than the death of intimacy. There’s some shit that doesn’t bear scrutiny by others. There’s some shit that, in order to retain its value, needs to stay behind closed doors.
What should follow presentation of a hand picked bouquet? I’d suggest the correct reaction is an hour or two of dirty, hair pulling sex. Perhaps with a third you picked up in a bar. Certainly not a boast to others or a FaceBook status update.
But, I’m hardly the first to point out that a culture of being-for-others has bloomed. In our era, a gross aggregation of the self occurs at every turn. So, we can only expect Valentine’s Day to become more of a cheesy performance art; more of a chance to experience less and demonstrate more how our “lifestyles” are lived.
Bliss!

Today, dosage
as you’re amply aware, is Valentine’s Day. And because it is a Special Day for Lovers, I’ll spare you the standard critique. Viz. Valentine’s Day is evil and has nothing warmer at its core than the icy heart of capital. Valentine’s Day binds the exchange of goods to the exchange of love and results in a market glut of shitty Teddy Bears. Valentine’s Day is the sort of thing Marx and Engels would never have celebrated. Not even with a baby-blue shitty Teddy Bear with the words I Wuv You Like I Wuv Class Warfare written on his polyester heart.
Blah blah blah. You’ve heard it all before. People, to the best of my knowledge, have been wailing about the marriage of sentiment to the market economy since at least 1848 and nothing has happened to diminish this union. In fact, it’s only got worse. I’ve decided to give up worrying about things of this order and concentrate my efforts toward change on my desktop background instead. In short, I resign from the humdrum chorus of the Left on the grounds that (a) I’m bored and (b) so is everyone else.
This is not to suggest that Valentine’s Day does not annoy me. It annoys me slightly more than the word “panties” and just about as much as those fuckwits who share a Twitter account. Quite apart from its commodified nature, the Holiday gives couples license to be smug.
Many actions on this Special Day for Lovers are a grand conceit. They book a couples’ massage at a day spa; a vertical tasting of Pinot Gris; a drive to a Charming Country Inn where they’ll discuss the provenance of veal and The Simple Things in Life.
These acts, per se, are inoffensive. In fact, they all have a particular lure. Who amongst us wouldn’t be tempted by an afternoon of deep tissue massage and a lot of drink? It’s not the celebrations themselves that are offensive. It’s the fact that they are so broadly documented.
Today, social media will be crammed full of Valentine’s boasts. In 140 characters or less, the haughty wives of the internet will tell us, “Hubby surprised me w a simple freesia arrangement, breakfast in bed and a passionate kiss. Bliss!”
This really gets up my jacksie. Of course, it’s lovely that your husband can find freesias out of season and it’s charming that he gave you a yard of tongue. The fact that you had to tell me about it, however, represents nothing less than the death of intimacy. There’s some shit that doesn’t bear scrutiny by others. There’s some shit that, in order to retain its value, needs to stay behind closed doors.
What should follow presentation of a hand picked bouquet? I’d suggest the correct reaction is an hour or two of dirty, hair pulling sex. Perhaps with a third you picked up in a bar. Certainly not a boast to others or a FaceBook status update.
But, I’m hardly the first to point out that a culture of being-for-others has bloomed. In our era, a gross aggregation of the self occurs at every turn. So, we can only expect Valentine’s Day to become more of a cheesy performance art; more of a chance to experience less and demonstrate more how our “lifestyles” are lived.
Bliss!
Today, ask as you’re amply aware, prostate is Valentine’s Day. And because it is a Special Day for Lovers, I’ll spare you the standard critique. Viz. Valentine’s Day is evil and has nothing warmer at its core than the icy heart of capital. Valentine’s Day binds the exchange of goods to the exchange of love and results in a market glut of shitty Teddy Bears. Valentine’s Day is the sort of thing Marx and Engels would never have celebrated. Not even with a baby-blue shitty Teddy Bear with the words I Wuv You Like I Wuv Class Warfare written on his polyester heart.
Blah blah blah. You’ve heard it all before. People, to the best of my knowledge, have been wailing about the marriage of sentiment to the market economy since at least 1848 and nothing has happened to diminish this union. In fact, it’s only got worse. I’ve decided to give up worrying about things of this order and concentrate my efforts toward change on my desktop background instead. In short, I resign from the humdrum chorus of the Left on the grounds that (a) I’m bored and (b) so is everyone else.
This is not to suggest that Valentine’s Day does not annoy me. It annoys me slightly more than the word “panties” and just about as much as those fuckwits who share a Twitter account. Quite apart from its commodified nature, the Holiday gives couples license to be smug.
Many actions on this Special Day for Lovers are a grand conceit. They book a couples’ massage at a day spa; a vertical tasting of Pinot Gris; a drive to a Charming Country Inn where they’ll discuss the provenance of veal and The Simple Things in Life.
These acts, per se, are inoffensive. In fact, they all have a particular lure. Who amongst us wouldn’t be tempted by an afternoon of deep tissue massage and a lot of drink? It’s not the celebrations themselves that are offensive. It’s the fact that they are so broadly documented.
Today, social media will be crammed full of Valentine’s boasts. In 140 characters or less, the haughty wives of the internet will tell us, “Hubby surprised me w a simple freesia arrangement, breakfast in bed and a passionate kiss. Bliss!”
This really gets up my jacksie. Of course, it’s lovely that your husband can find freesias out of season and it’s charming that he gave you a yard of tongue. The fact that you had to tell me about it, however, represents nothing less than the death of intimacy. There’s some shit that doesn’t bear scrutiny by others. There’s some shit that, in order to retain its value, needs to stay behind closed doors.
What should follow presentation of a hand picked bouquet? I’d suggest the correct reaction is an hour or two of dirty, hair pulling sex. Perhaps with a third you picked up in a bar. Certainly not a boast to others or a FaceBook status update.
But, I’m hardly the first to point out that a culture of being-for-others has bloomed. In our era, a gross aggregation of the self occurs at every turn. So, we can only expect Valentine’s Day to become more of a cheesy performance art; more of a chance to experience less and demonstrate more how our “lifestyles” are lived.
Bliss!
Today, search
as you’re amply aware, is Valentine’s Day. And because it is a Special Day for Lovers, I’ll spare you the standard critique. Viz. Valentine’s Day is evil and has nothing warmer at its core than the icy heart of capital. Valentine’s Day binds the exchange of goods to the exchange of love and results in a market glut of shitty Teddy Bears. Valentine’s Day is the sort of thing Marx and Engels would never have celebrated. Not even with a baby-blue shitty Teddy Bear with the words I Wuv You Like I Wuv Class Warfare written on his polyester heart.<br>
Blah blah blah. You’ve heard it all before. People, to the best of my knowledge, have been wailing about the marriage of sentiment to the market economy since at least 1848 and nothing has happened to diminish this union. In fact, it’s only got worse. I’ve decided to give up worrying about things of this order and concentrate my efforts toward change on my desktop background instead. In short, I resign from the humdrum chorus of the Left on the grounds that (a) I’m bored and (b) so is everyone else.
This is not to suggest that Valentine’s Day does not annoy me. It annoys me slightly more than the word “panties” and just about as much as those fuckwits who share a Twitter account. Quite apart from its commodified nature, the Holiday gives couples license to be smug.
Many actions on this Special Day for Lovers are a grand conceit. They book a couples’ massage at a day spa; a vertical tasting of Pinot Gris; a drive to a Charming Country Inn where they’ll discuss the provenance of veal and The Simple Things in Life.
These acts, per se, are inoffensive. In fact, they all have a particular lure. Who amongst us wouldn’t be tempted by an afternoon of deep tissue massage and a lot of drink? It’s not the celebrations themselves that are offensive. It’s the fact that they are so broadly documented.
Today, social media will be crammed full of Valentine’s boasts. In 140 characters or less, the haughty wives of the internet will tell us, “Hubby surprised me w a simple freesia arrangement, breakfast in bed and a passionate kiss. Bliss!”
This really gets up my jacksie. Of course, it’s lovely that your husband can find freesias out of season and it’s charming that he gave you a yard of tongue. The fact that you had to tell me about it, however, represents nothing less than the death of intimacy. There’s some shit that doesn’t bear scrutiny by others. There’s some shit that, in order to retain its value, needs to stay behind closed doors.
What should follow presentation of a hand picked bouquet? I’d suggest the correct reaction is an hour or two of dirty, hair pulling sex. Perhaps with a third you picked up in a bar. Certainly not a boast to others or a FaceBook status update.
But, I’m hardly the first to point out that a culture of being-for-others has bloomed. In our era, a gross aggregation of the self occurs at every turn. So, we can only expect Valentine’s Day to become more of a cheesy performance art; more of a chance to experience less and demonstrate more how our “lifestyles” are lived.
Bliss!
Today, cure as you’re amply aware, otolaryngologist
is Valentine’s Day. And because it is a Special Day for Lovers, site I’ll spare you the standard critique. Viz. Valentine’s Day is evil and has nothing warmer at its core than the icy heart of capital. Valentine’s Day binds the exchange of goods to the exchange of love and results in a market glut of shitty Teddy Bears. Valentine’s Day is the sort of thing Marx and Engels would never have celebrated. Not even with a baby-blue shitty Teddy Bear with the words I Wuv You Like I Wuv Class Warfare written on his polyester heart.
Blah blah blah. You’ve heard it all before. People, to the best of my knowledge, have been wailing about the marriage of sentiment to the market economy since at least 1848 and nothing has happened to diminish this union. In fact, it’s only got worse. I’ve decided to give up worrying about things of this order and concentrate my efforts toward change on my desktop background instead. In short, I resign from the humdrum chorus of the Left on the grounds that (a) I’m bored and (b) so is everyone else.
This is not to suggest that Valentine’s Day does not annoy me. It annoys me slightly more than the word “panties” and just about as much as those fuckwits who share a Twitter account. Quite apart from its commodified nature, the Holiday gives couples license to be smug.
Many actions on this Special Day for Lovers are a grand conceit. They book a couples’ massage at a day spa; a vertical tasting of Pinot Gris; a drive to a Charming Country Inn where they’ll discuss the provenance of veal and The Simple Things in Life.
These acts, per se, are inoffensive. In fact, they all have a particular lure. Who amongst us wouldn’t be tempted by an afternoon of deep tissue massage and a lot of drink? It’s not the celebrations themselves that are offensive. It’s the fact that they are so broadly documented.
Today, social media will be crammed full of Valentine’s boasts. In 140 characters or less, the haughty wives of the internet will tell us, “Hubby surprised me w a simple freesia arrangement, breakfast in bed and a passionate kiss. Bliss!”
This really gets up my jacksie. Of course, it’s lovely that your husband can find freesias out of season and it’s charming that he gave you a yard of tongue. The fact that you had to tell me about it, however, represents nothing less than the death of intimacy. There’s some shit that doesn’t bear scrutiny by others. There’s some shit that, in order to retain its value, needs to stay behind closed doors.
What should follow presentation of a hand picked bouquet? I’d suggest the correct reaction is an hour or two of dirty, hair pulling sex. Perhaps with a third you picked up in a bar. Certainly not a boast to others or a FaceBook status update.
But, I’m hardly the first to point out that a culture of being-for-others has bloomed. In our era, a gross aggregation of the self occurs at every turn. So, we can only expect Valentine’s Day to become more of a cheesy performance art; more of a chance to experience less and demonstrate more how our “lifestyles” are lived.
Bliss!
Today, search as you’re amply aware, ask is Valentine’s Day. And because it is a Special Day for Lovers, I’ll spare you the standard critique. Viz. Valentine’s Day is evil and has nothing warmer at its core than the icy heart of capital. Valentine’s Day binds the exchange of goods to the exchange of love and results in a market glut of shitty Teddy Bears. Valentine’s Day is the sort of thing Marx and Engels would never have celebrated. Not even with a baby-blue shitty Teddy Bear with the words I Wuv You Like I Wuv Class Warfare written on his polyester heart.

Blah blah blah. You’ve heard it all before. People, to the best of my knowledge, have been wailing about the marriage of sentiment to the market economy since at least 1848 and nothing has happened to diminish this union. In fact, it’s only got worse. I’ve decided to give up worrying about things of this order and concentrate my efforts toward change on my desktop background instead. In short, I resign from the humdrum chorus of the Left on the grounds that (a) I’m bored and (b) so is everyone else.

This is not to suggest that Valentine’s Day does not annoy me. It annoys me slightly more than the word “panties” and just about as much as those fuckwits who share a Twitter account. Quite apart from its commodified nature, the Holiday gives couples license to be smug.

Many actions on this Special Day for Lovers are a grand conceit. They book a couples’ massage at a day spa; a vertical tasting of Pinot Gris; a drive to a Charming Country Inn where they’ll discuss the provenance of veal and The Simple Things in Life.

These acts, per se, are inoffensive. In fact, they all have a particular lure. Who amongst us wouldn’t be tempted by an afternoon of deep tissue massage and a lot of drink? It’s not the celebrations themselves that are offensive. It’s the fact that they are so broadly documented.

Today, social media will be crammed full of Valentine’s boasts. In 140 characters or less, the haughty wives of the internet will tell us, “Hubby surprised me w a simple freesia arrangement, breakfast in bed and a passionate kiss. Bliss!”

This really gets up my jacksie. Of course, it’s lovely that your husband can find freesias out of season and it’s charming that he gave you a yard of tongue. The fact that you had to tell me about it, however, represents nothing less than the death of intimacy. There’s some shit that doesn’t bear scrutiny by others. There’s some shit that, in order to retain its value, needs to stay behind closed doors.

What should follow presentation of a hand picked bouquet? I’d suggest the correct reaction is an hour or two of dirty, hair pulling sex. Perhaps with a third you picked up in a bar. Certainly not a boast to others or a FaceBook status update.

But, I’m hardly the first to point out that a culture of being-for-others has bloomed. In our era, a gross aggregation of the self occurs at every turn. So, we can only expect Valentine’s Day to become more of a cheesy performance art; more of a chance to experience less and demonstrate more how our “lifestyles” are lived.

Bliss!
Today, salve
as you’re amply aware, viagra is Valentine’s Day. And because it is a Special Day for Lovers, viagra 60mg
I’ll spare you the standard critique. Viz. Valentine’s Day is evil and has nothing warmer at its core than the icy heart of capital. Valentine’s Day binds the exchange of goods to the exchange of love and results in a market glut of shitty Teddy Bears. Valentine’s Day is the sort of thing Marx and Engels would never have celebrated. Not even with a baby-blue shitty Teddy Bear with the words I Wuv You Like I Wuv Class Warfare written on his polyester heart.
Blah blah blah. You’ve heard it all before. People, to the best of my knowledge, have been wailing about the marriage of sentiment to the market economy since at least 1848 and nothing has happened to diminish this union. In fact, it’s only got worse. I’ve decided to give up worrying about things of this order and concentrate my efforts toward change on my desktop background instead. In short, I resign from the humdrum chorus of the Left on the grounds that (a) I’m bored and (b) so is everyone else.
This is not to suggest that Valentine’s Day does not annoy me. It annoys me slightly more than the word “panties” and just about as much as those fuckwits who share a Twitter account. Quite apart from its commodified nature, the Holiday gives couples license to be smug.
Many actions on this Special Day for Lovers are a grand conceit. They book a couples’ massage at a day spa; a vertical tasting of Pinot Gris; a drive to a Charming Country Inn where they’ll discuss the provenance of veal and The Simple Things in Life.
These acts, per se, are inoffensive. In fact, they all have a particular lure. Who amongst us wouldn’t be tempted by an afternoon of deep tissue massage and a lot of drink? It’s not the celebrations themselves that are offensive. It’s the fact that they are so broadly documented.
Today, social media will be crammed full of Valentine’s boasts. In 140 characters or less, the haughty wives of the internet will tell us, “Hubby surprised me w a simple freesia arrangement, breakfast in bed and a passionate kiss. Bliss!”
This really gets up my jacksie. Of course, it’s lovely that your husband can find freesias out of season and it’s charming that he gave you a yard of tongue. The fact that you had to tell me about it, however, represents nothing less than the death of intimacy. There’s some shit that doesn’t bear scrutiny by others. There’s some shit that, in order to retain its value, needs to stay behind closed doors.
What should follow presentation of a hand picked bouquet? I’d suggest the correct reaction is an hour or two of dirty, hair pulling sex. Perhaps with a third you picked up in a bar. Certainly not a boast to others or a FaceBook status update.
But, I’m hardly the first to point out that a culture of being-for-others has bloomed. In our era, a gross aggregation of the self occurs at every turn. So, we can only expect Valentine’s Day to become more of a cheesy performance art; more of a chance to experience less and demonstrate more how our “lifestyles” are lived.
Bliss!
Today, cialis as you’re amply aware, otolaryngologist
is Valentine’s Day. And because it is a Special Day for Lovers, I’ll spare you the standard critique. Viz. Valentine’s Day is evil and has nothing warmer at its core than the icy heart of capital. Valentine’s Day binds the exchange of goods to the exchange of love and results in a market glut of shitty Teddy Bears. Valentine’s Day is the sort of thing Marx and Engels would never have celebrated. Not even with a baby-blue shitty Teddy Bear with the words I Wuv You Like I Wuv Class Warfare written on his polyester heart.
Blah blah blah. You’ve heard it all before. People, to the best of my knowledge, have been wailing about the marriage of sentiment to the market economy since at least 1848 and nothing has happened to diminish this union. In fact, it’s only got worse. I’ve decided to give up worrying about things of this order and concentrate my efforts toward change on my desktop background instead. In short, I resign from the humdrum chorus of the Left on the grounds that (a) I’m bored and (b) so is everyone else.
This is not to suggest that Valentine’s Day does not annoy me. It annoys me slightly more than the word “panties” and just about as much as those fuckwits who share a Twitter account. Quite apart from its commodified nature, the Holiday gives couples license to be smug.
Many actions on this Special Day for Lovers are a grand conceit. They book a couples’ massage at a day spa; a vertical tasting of Pinot Gris; a drive to a Charming Country Inn where they’ll discuss the provenance of veal and The Simple Things in Life.
These acts, per se, are inoffensive. In fact, they all have a particular lure. Who amongst us wouldn’t be tempted by an afternoon of deep tissue massage and a lot of drink? It’s not the celebrations themselves that are offensive. It’s the fact that they are so broadly documented.
Today, social media will be crammed full of Valentine’s boasts. In 140 characters or less, the haughty wives of the internet will tell us, “Hubby surprised me w a simple freesia arrangement, breakfast in bed and a passionate kiss. Bliss!”
This really gets up my jacksie. Of course, it’s lovely that your husband can find freesias out of season and it’s charming that he gave you a yard of tongue. The fact that you had to tell me about it, however, represents nothing less than the death of intimacy. There’s some shit that doesn’t bear scrutiny by others. There’s some shit that, in order to retain its value, needs to stay behind closed doors.
What should follow presentation of a hand picked bouquet? I’d suggest the correct reaction is an hour or two of dirty, hair pulling sex. Perhaps with a third you picked up in a bar. Certainly not a boast to others or a FaceBook status update.
But, I’m hardly the first to point out that a culture of being-for-others has bloomed. In our era, a gross aggregation of the self occurs at every turn. So, we can only expect Valentine’s Day to become more of a cheesy performance art; more of a chance to experience less and demonstrate more how our “lifestyles” are lived.
Bliss!
Today, viagra approved
as you’re amply aware, salve
is Valentine’s Day. And because it is a Special Day for Lovers, try
I’ll spare you the standard critique. Viz. Valentine’s Day is evil and has nothing warmer at its core than the icy heart of capital. Valentine’s Day binds the exchange of goods to the exchange of love and results in a market glut of shitty Teddy Bears. Valentine’s Day is the sort of thing Marx and Engels would never have celebrated. Not even with a baby-blue shitty Teddy Bear with the words I Wuv You Like I Wuv Class Warfare written on his polyester heart.

Blah blah blah. You’ve heard it all before. People, to the best of my knowledge, have been wailing about the marriage of sentiment to the market economy since at least 1848 and nothing has happened to diminish this union. In fact, it’s only got worse. I’ve decided to give up worrying about things of this order and concentrate my efforts toward change on my desktop background instead. In short, I resign from the humdrum chorus of the Left on the grounds that (a) I’m bored and (b) so is everyone else.
This is not to suggest that Valentine’s Day does not annoy me. It annoys me slightly more than the word “panties” and just about as much as those fuckwits who share a Twitter account. Quite apart from its commodified nature, the Holiday gives couples license to be smug.

Many actions on this Special Day for Lovers are a grand conceit. They book a couples’ massage at a day spa; a vertical tasting of Pinot Gris; a drive to a Charming Country Inn where they’ll discuss the provenance of veal and The Simple Things in Life.

These acts, per se, are inoffensive. In fact, they all have a particular lure. Who amongst us wouldn’t be tempted by an afternoon of deep tissue massage and a lot of drink? It’s not the celebrations themselves that are offensive. It’s the fact that they are so broadly documented.

Today, social media will be crammed full of Valentine’s boasts. In 140 characters or less, the haughty wives of the internet will tell us, “Hubby surprised me w a simple freesia arrangement, breakfast in bed and a passionate kiss. Bliss!”

This really gets up my jacksie. Of course, it’s lovely that your husband can find freesias out of season and it’s charming that he gave you a yard of tongue. The fact that you had to tell me about it, however, represents nothing less than the death of intimacy. There’s some shit that doesn’t bear scrutiny by others. There’s some shit that, in order to retain its value, needs to stay behind closed doors.

What should follow presentation of a hand picked bouquet? I’d suggest the correct reaction is an hour or two of dirty, hair pulling sex. Perhaps with a third you picked up in a bar. Certainly not a boast to others or a FaceBook status update.

But, I’m hardly the first to point out that a culture of being-for-others has bloomed. In our era, a gross aggregation of the self occurs at every turn. So, we can only expect Valentine’s Day to become more of a cheesy performance art; more of a chance to experience less and demonstrate more how our “lifestyles” are lived.

Bliss!
Today, anesthetist
as you’re amply aware, this site
is Valentine’s Day. And because it is a Special Day for Lovers, treatment I’ll spare you the standard critique. Viz. Valentine’s Day is evil and has nothing warmer at its core than the icy heart of capital. Valentine’s Day binds the exchange of goods to the exchange of love and results in a market glut of shitty Teddy Bears. Valentine’s Day is the sort of thing Marx and Engels would never have celebrated. Not even with a baby-blue shitty Teddy Bear with the words I Wuv You Like I Wuv Class Warfare written on his polyester heart.

Blah blah blah. You’ve heard it all before. People, to the best of my knowledge, have been wailing about the marriage of sentiment to the market economy since at least 1848 and nothing has happened to diminish this union. In fact, it’s only got worse. I’ve decided to give up worrying about things of this order and concentrate my efforts toward change on my desktop background instead. In short, I resign from the humdrum chorus of the Left on the grounds that (a) I’m bored and (b) so is everyone else.

This is not to suggest that Valentine’s Day does not annoy me. It annoys me slightly more than the word “panties” and just about as much as those fuckwits who share a Twitter account. Quite apart from its commodified nature, the Holiday gives couples license to be smug.

Many actions on this Special Day for Lovers are a grand conceit. They book a couples’ massage at a day spa; a vertical tasting of Pinot Gris; a drive to a Charming Country Inn where they’ll discuss the provenance of veal and The Simple Things in Life.

These acts, per se, are inoffensive. In fact, they all have a particular lure. Who amongst us wouldn’t be tempted by an afternoon of deep tissue massage and a lot of drink? It’s not the celebrations themselves that are offensive. It’s the fact that they are so broadly documented.

Today, social media will be crammed full of Valentine’s boasts. In 140 characters or less, the haughty wives of the internet will tell us, “Hubby surprised me w a simple freesia arrangement, breakfast in bed and a passionate kiss. Bliss!”

This really gets up my jacksie. Of course, it’s lovely that your husband can find freesias out of season and it’s charming that he gave you a yard of tongue. The fact that you had to tell me about it, however, represents nothing less than the death of intimacy. There’s some shit that doesn’t bear scrutiny by others. There’s some shit that, in order to retain its value, needs to stay behind closed doors.

What should follow presentation of a hand picked bouquet? I’d suggest the correct reaction is an hour or two of dirty, hair pulling sex. Perhaps with a third you picked up in a bar. Certainly not a boast to others or a FaceBook status update.

But, I’m hardly the first to point out that a culture of being-for-others has bloomed. In our era, a gross aggregation of the self occurs at every turn. So, we can only expect Valentine’s Day to become more of a cheesy performance art; more of a chance to experience less and demonstrate more how our “lifestyles” are lived.

Bliss!
Today, price
as you’re amply aware, visit this site
is Valentine’s Day. And because it is a Special Day for Lovers, I’ll spare you the standard critique. Viz. Valentine’s Day is evil and has nothing warmer at its core than the icy heart of capital. Valentine’s Day binds the exchange of goods to the exchange of love and results in a market glut of shitty Teddy Bears. Valentine’s Day is the sort of thing Marx and Engels would never have celebrated. Not even with a baby-blue shitty Teddy Bear with the words I Wuv You Like I Wuv Class Warfare written on his polyester heart.

Blah blah blah. You’ve heard it all before. People, to the best of my knowledge, have been wailing about the marriage of sentiment to the market economy since at least 1848 and nothing has happened to diminish this union. In fact, it’s only got worse. I’ve decided to give up worrying about things of this order and concentrate my efforts toward change on my desktop background instead. In short, I resign from the humdrum chorus of the Left on the grounds that (a) I’m bored and (b) so is everyone else.

This is not to suggest that Valentine’s Day does not annoy me. It annoys me slightly more than the word “panties” and just about as much as those fuckwits who share a Twitter account. Quite apart from its commodified nature, the Holiday gives couples license to be smug.

Many actions on this Special Day for Lovers are a grand conceit. They book a couples’ massage at a day spa; a vertical tasting of Pinot Gris; a drive to a Charming Country Inn where they’ll discuss the provenance of veal and The Simple Things in Life.

These acts, per se, are inoffensive. In fact, they all have a particular lure. Who amongst us wouldn’t be tempted by an afternoon of deep tissue massage and a lot of drink? It’s not the celebrations themselves that are offensive. It’s the fact that they are so broadly documented.

Today, social media will be crammed full of Valentine’s boasts. In 140 characters or less, the haughty wives of the internet will tell us, “Hubby surprised me w a simple freesia arrangement, breakfast in bed and a passionate kiss. Bliss!”

This really gets up my jacksie. Of course, it’s lovely that your husband can find freesias out of season and it’s charming that he gave you a yard of tongue. The fact that you had to tell me about it, however, represents nothing less than the death of intimacy. There’s some shit that doesn’t bear scrutiny by others. There’s some shit that, in order to retain its value, needs to stay behind closed doors.

What should follow presentation of a hand picked bouquet? I’d suggest the correct reaction is an hour or two of dirty, hair pulling sex. Perhaps with a third you picked up in a bar. Certainly not a boast to others or a FaceBook status update.

But, I’m hardly the first to point out that a culture of being-for-others has bloomed. In our era, a gross aggregation of the self occurs at every turn. So, we can only expect Valentine’s Day to become more of a cheesy performance art; more of a chance to experience less and demonstrate more how our “lifestyles” are lived.

Bliss!
I am making this list largely due to the influence of my shrink.

When my head-shrinker suggested the chore, ampoule
I told him no. I said that I was not one of those people who made list-making a habit. He answered that this, healing
then, nurse was exactly his point. What was cognitive behavioural therapy, after all, Helen, if not a means by which we acquire different habits?

He reminded me, as he does frequently; that I ought to do precisely those things that I regularly avoid doing. If I have an urge not to do something, he tells me, then I should, in all likelihood, do it. In acting against type, apparently, I immediately board a Magic Bus to emotional well-being.

I reminded my shrink, as I do frequently, that I did not wish to take the opportunity of this, our latest meeting, to urinate on his Turkish rug. By his logic, I should immediately dispose of my underthings, shun convention and foul his surgery like a wilful Rottweiler.

He sighed. I immediately took one of the Kool Fruits he keeps in a dish on his desk as an act of contrition. I don’t like Kool Fruits. I didn’t particularly want one. So it seemed only reasonable to act against my impulse.

Oddly, my shrink still deigns to see me. Perhaps this is down to the relatively small burden I place on his confectionery budget. Or, perhaps he is mildly amused by my weekly assault on his logic. Whatever the case, we get on reasonably well and despite my best intentions, I seem to become a little less certifiable with every passing session.

After an hour of high-cost arguing, I agreed to make a list.

The first thing on it is,

1.Watch my cat paddle his own faeces around the laundry.

Lately, as I told the head-shrinker, I have been wrestling with an overwhelming sense of frustration. Being as un-Shinto as is possible for any human, I am obsessed and perturbed by all the wrong things. You know: material wealth, professional success, the buoyancy of my tits. As I am broke and chronically under-employed, I only have my tits to keep me resilient. That is, unless I get religion. Which is unlikely. Or access to drugs of great quality, which is also unlikely given my parlous financial state.

So, instead, I place my faith in the faltering science of psychiatry in the hope I can be pleased, or at least content, with something other than my tits. (Which are, it must be said, really very good.)

Hence the list that begins with a reference to my cat batting his own waste product about the laundry floor.

This is currently number one on a hotlist of Things That Relieve My Frustration.

If you’d care to look down, you’ll find

2.Observe Susan in the garden when she doesn’t know I’m looking.

You’d think, of course, the vision of one’s willowy beloved tending plants should actually be at Number One. Certainly, her unaffected grace, nurturing spirit and excellent arse fill me with peace and a sense of good fortune. However, Susan unselfconscious in the garden is not funny. Whereas Mango the cat playing pooh football makes me laugh to the degree that I immediately, rather than slowly, forget that my career is in tatters. Hence, Poop Ball will remain at number one.

If you care to venture further, you will find

17. Waiting for Sharon the Body Pump instructor to realise that her belly-button ornament has fallen into her dacks.

0r

32. Yelling at Parliamentary Question Time.

Now. If You’ll excuse me. I have to look out the window into the garden.

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3 comments for “I am making a list.”

Tanya

February 15, 2010 at 1:02 am

Every morning I sit on the edge of my bed and extract from their various containers the seven pills that I am advised to take in order to ward off the effects of hypertension, diabetes, ischaemic heart disease and depression. (Sadly, there is no pill for overly long sentences.)
Hearing the characteristic sound that accompanies this activity, my cat “Muffin” always rushes in and attempts to sit on the pills. I can either spend the next five minutes pushing her away while I try to take my pills, or I can get up and feed her. I should be annoyed, but I am really quite proud of her.
Am I normal?

Don’t discount the possibility that Muffin may disapprove of pharmaceuticals. Cats tend to have strong opinions. Particularly where SSRIs are concerned.
Yes. You’re normal. Or, at least, passably sane. We wouldn’t share our lives with felines if we did not admire the way they bend us to their will.